


to finally know you

by PinkHydrangea



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: F/F, Falling In Love, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-05-28 15:51:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15052622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkHydrangea/pseuds/PinkHydrangea
Summary: Clair burns gold and true in Celica's eyes, a radiant vision of everything she knows Zofia—the One Kingdom—could be. || aka Celica and Clair falling in love post-canon and dealing with Feelings and politics and military duties





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WAIN [ (@ohmyclair on twitter)](https://twitter.com/ohmyclair) WANTED CELICLAIR SO I STARTED WRITING IT AND IT TURNED OUT UHHH A LOT LONGER THAN I PLANNED so here is chapter one of post-canon celiclair that totally got out of hand... i liked celiclair before but writing this made me so soft for them hhhhhhhh wow they're adorable!!! i love them

Three weeks since the end of the battle with Duma, and they are still in the imperial capital of Rigel. The castle is large enough to house their forces, and it’s also good for them all to be in one place to allow the clerics to heal them. It feels like a rather dull place, with gray stone walls and drab banners; it could not be any more different from the vibrant and sparkling Zofian castle. Yet, there is something warm about it, in the decoration and the way it is structured.

Celica spends much of her time after the fight in the Rigelian castle’s library, doing her research. She figures that if she and Alm are to unite Zofia and Rigel, she’ll need to know more about Rigelian customs and traditions than she does now. Having both been raised Zofian, they have their work cut out for them; Alm sometimes comes into the library to join her, sitting on the ground with his cheeks in his hands while he stares at the same page of a book for five minutes.

She has meetings with a few people: Alm, Mycen, Nomah, Saber, and a couple of Alm’s people, including Ezekiel and Mathilda. They have long, long discussions about the best way to go about uniting the continent underneath Celica and Alm’s rule as representatives for Zofia and Rigel respectively. Mycen brings up that this might not be as easy as they want, considering the fact that Alm is culturally more Zofian than he is Rigelian. The Rigelian court may not want to merge without a few bumps in the road. Ezekiel agrees with him.

This greatly stresses Celica. She tries to come up with ways they can bribe the Rigelian nobility into becoming part of the One Kingdom—Saber tells her that there will likely always be dissenters. Everyone agrees that there will be problems, and it won’t flow like they want. This makes her squirm; she doesn’t like the thought of a possible civil war, not after what they just went through. They’re all tired. They’re all weary. Celica doesn’t know how much fight they have left in them.

She’s very stressed by all of this, and it’s all that consumes her thoughts. Boey tells her she seems distant and not herself. She looks tired and anxious. But, while Boey says this, Mae tells her that she looks like she has a blaze in her eye and a sureness in her stance. Celica takes comfort now that she knows that at least people _think_ she knows what she’s doing, but she still worries, especially as they start having negotiations with the Rigelian court. They’re stubborn, certainly, but she also senses that they are nervous.

Celica doesn’t blame them. She can’t. How could she?

There’s a woman that has been tending to Alm in the past while, and who has extended her care to Celica as well. Her features and accent scream Rigelian, so Celica assumes she’s some sort of castle servant, but Alm later tells her that she’s one of the Deliverance’s healers. Her name is Tatiana, and Celica finds that, to put it lightly, she’s in very high demand. She’ll bring them lunch and stay to help organize books, and soon enough, someone will come crashing into the library to look for her. To be honest, this is the way she winds up meeting many of the Deliverance’s members.

Celica is in the library again one day, going over notes about Rigelian politics. Alm is somewhere on the other side of the library, and almost like clockwork, Tatiana comes in, a tray of food and drink in her hands. She sets a plate with sandwiches and salad down on the table Celica is working at, a cup of water too, and smiles at her before going to Alm with his food. The heels of her shoes click gently against the hardwood floor, rhythmically echoing throughout the quiet room, but the sound doesn’t distract Celica. She idly stabs at the salad with her fork, never peeling her eyes from her research.

And then, also like clockwork, someone comes barging into the library for Tatiana. Celica does not look up to see who it is, far too enthralled in what she is reading, but dully notes in the back of her mind that she has never heard this person’s voice before. They sound like a young woman, with very clear and articulate annunciation.

“Tatiana, I do need your help! My poor pegasus bruised her lovely wing somehow, and she is in such pain. I don’t suppose you could give her a look?”

“Oh, my. I don’t know if I’ve ever treated a pegasus before, but I’ve never heard of healing magic _not_ working on them. Give me just a moment to take this back to the kitchen, and we can go look at her together.”

Celica’s eyes trace the last word of the chapter. She picks it up and thumbs through the rest of it, but doesn’t see anything relevant to the topic she is currently researching. Carefully, she closes it, puts her quill back in its inkwell, and spares a glance towards Tatiana and the newcomer, both of whom are now speaking with Alm on the far side of the room. The girl looks like she’s not that much younger than Tatiana—Celica would pin her around her own age, probably. Her build is somewhat slight, and she has wavy blonde hair tied up in a high ponytail. She looks nice, but she doesn’t want to interrupt whatever conversation they’re having, so she moves quietly between bookshelves.

“How did she bruise her wing?”

“The poor thing got a little fussy when Clive’s horse got close to her. She hit her wing against a post in the stables very hard.”

Celica stares at the book titles as she moves through the aisles, searching for an entry that she hears details Rigel’s nomadic tribes. She sees what she is looking for on the second-to-top shelf of a very tall bookcase, but it’s no problem; there’s a sliding ladder at the end of the aisle, and she drags it over to the book. Alm is still speaking with Tatiana and the newcomer a couple of bookcases away, but she doesn’t want to eavesdrop.

She climbs the ladder, carefully placing her feet on the rungs, and pauses to warily check if the ladder is going to suddenly slide around and dislodge her. Satisfied that it’s sturdy and she isn’t going to go sprawling, possibly for everyone else in the library to see, she keeps climbing. She doesn’t fancy embarrassing herself in front of Alm, and especially not in front of strangers.

Celica climbs halfway up the ladder, holds to the side of it, and strains upwards for the book. The tips of her fingers brush over the edge, but she can’t get a grip on it. Sighing, she climbs another rung, reaches higher, and— _success!_ _—_ gets a nice, solid grip on it. Satisfied with her success, she starts to pull it from its place, and she makes a move to descend as she does so.

And her foot slips.

Her heel slides in forward over the rung, towards the bookshelf, and she starts to slip backwards. She doesn’t shriek, but she does let out a little alarmed squeak as she feels the world start to flip around. Her foot is stuck uncomfortably against the ladder, and she’s going to get her leg all mangled. The ladder is attached to the bookshelf, and Celica starts to wonder if, after she literally trekked across the continent and helped put a _god_ out of his misery, this is how she’s going to go: Smushed underneath a bookshelf because her shoe didn’t have enough grip.

Suddenly, hands are pressed against her back, someone says, “Gracious!,” and Celica isn’t falling anymore. Someone is holding her up, her foot is still tangled up in the rungs, and she’s at a perfect right angle with the ladder.

With her head still spinning a little, Celica blinks, looks up, and sees that girl who came for Tatiana. She’s holding her up a little awkwardly, but with great strength, and is staring down at her with an alarmed expression. Up close, she would certainly pin her as around her own age, and she- she’s _prettier_ than Celica expected. Zofian, certainly, with pale yellow hair and high cheekbones. Her eyes a warm, striking, smoky brown, framed by thick lashes. Her lips are also perfectly pink, obviously painted expertly with care, and Celica simply forgets what words are.

Fortunately, the girl speaks first, asking, “Are you alright? I heard a cry of distress and came rushing! You could have bumped your head terribly…”

Celica swallows, looks down, and sees her desired book sitting open-faced on the ground. “Y-yes, I am fine. I was grabbing that book, and I suppose my shoe just didn’t have a good grip as I was climbing down.”

“No fault of yours. We all slip and fall, correct?” The girl shifts Celica in her arms, pushing her upwards back towards the ladder. “Let’s get you on your feet, shall we?”

Celica grips the sides of the ladder, her balance aided by the girl’s strong hands holding her up, and rights herself. She climbs down the rest of the ladder, watched closely by the girl, along with Alm and Tatiana, and feels immense relief as she puts her feet on steady ground. Unconsciously, she reaches up to pat her hair for anything out of place before turning around.

The girl has Celica’s book in her hand, outstretched towards her. She’s dressed in fine riding clothes that fit her athletic frame well: Leggings, knee-high boots tied with white ribbons, and a flowing, dark blue coat with ruffles flaring out at the waist. Her presence is warm, and her straight posture and polite bearing speak to her mannerisms and breeding. This girl has “nobility” writ all over her, but she doesn’t quite fit the image of Zofian nobility that Celica has come to expect.

A moment passes, Alm asks, “Are you okay?” and Celica remembers herself. She runs a hand over her dress, takes the book from the girl, and offers a slight curtsy in thanks. She sees her open her mouth, but before she can speak, Tatiana comes over with wide eyes, pressed lips, and fussing hands.

“Are you alright?” she asks as her hand hovers over Celica. “Oh, that could’ve been real bad! Did you bump your head? Twist an ankle? I can heal you if-”

Celica takes a step back, waving a hand, and Alm steps in with, “She’s sturdy, so a stumble like that wouldn’t have hurt her at all.”

The girl is still staring at Celica, almost expectantly, and it embarrasses her. She absently turns the book over in her hands, blankly staring at the cover, and says, “I’m fine. There’s no need to worry for me. The lady here caught me just in time, and I owe her my thanks.”

The girl’s smile shifts into bright delight. One of her hands comes up to play with a strand of hair framing her face, and she says, “I have absolutely no need for thanks! It is simply my pleasure to rescue nice girls, and certainly my duty to protect the future queen.”

Celica looks up from her book, into the bright face of the girl, and dares to smile back.

“This is Clair,” Alm introduces suddenly. “A close friend of mine. She’s the best pegasus knight in the Deliverance.”

Clair.

Clair puts a cheek in a hand, waving a gloved hand dismissively. “Poppycock! You flatter me so much.”

“A pegasus knight, you say?” Celica holds the book loosely in both hands, arranging herself in a polite, regal pose. “How wonderful. I worked with three delightful pegasus knights in my party. It takes quite some skill and poise to be one, doesn’t it?”

She’s red to the point of glowing now, but smiling greatly. “Just so! I’m so glad to meet someone who appreciates my calling. Most people would like to say we’re inferior to bow and gold knights.”

Celica hears Tatiana murmur quietly, awkwardly, “Are you sure you’re alright?” before Alm guides her away, past the bookshelves and out of sight. And yet, she doesn’t notice their departure. Clair has such a sweet face that she feels naturally drawn to look at, and nothing else around them seems to be of much import anymore.

Clair lowers her hand from her hair and looks shocked, so suddenly that Celica reaches up to touch her hair and looks down to observe her dress, worried that something about her looks off. Yet, all Clair says is, “Oh my, you must let me introduce myself properly, beyond Alm’s niceties. You will allow me, Lady Anthiese?”

“Celica,” she says instinctively, and then clears her throat. “If you- if you so wish, I’d be delighted to make your acquaintance.”

Clair repeats, “Lady Celica,” places an arm behind her back in proper military form, and then reaches for Celica’s hand. Celica jumps a little as she grabs it, but relaxes immediately when all that happens is her lifting it. Clair’s hand is gloved, but she feels the warmth and hard calluses beneath the fabric.

“My name is Lady Clair of House Chatelain, and I am a knight of the Zofian Deliverance. I am beyond pleased to make the acquaintance of a lovely woman such as yourself, Princess Celica.”

And then, Clair bows, raises Celica’s hand to her lips, and kisses it.

It’s just a little thing, the kiss. It’s more manners and customs than anything else, a common show of respect in the Zofian court, as Celica understands it. It’s only a light brushing of Clair’s lips over Celica’s knuckles, but it sends a pleasant tingle thrumming through her body. She almost says something like _Oh, my,_ but she has once more forgotten what words are, and she finds herself watching the way the Rigelian sunlight coming in from the windows hits Clair’s hair from this angle.

Clair stands up straight and gently releases Celica’s hand after what feels like thirty minutes, but was only seconds. “I am so honored to finally know you, princess.”

Celica smiles again, smiles very honestly, and looks down to the hand that Clair kissed. There is a little smear of pink lip paint left behind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's the busy season at work and im dead..., working 12+ hours 6 days a week. but still loving celiclair. (forgive me if this chapter is a little wonky,, i wanted to publish it before i went to work so it's only been through a couple rounds of editing so i've gotta finish polishing it up later!!!!)

Celica has been preparing to be a queen her whole entire life, since it has always, _always_ been her birthright. The only woman that Lima had ever crowned queen officially was Liprica. Despite that, she knows her mother never had any political power nor sway; she was a queen only in name, unfortunately there to only awkwardly sit by Lima’s side and look pretty. Yet, even with her own lack of power, her status as queen always meant that Celica was the child most entitled to the Zofian throne, even above any of her older brothers or sisters, such as Conrad.

Since her birth, her life has been filled with both etiquette and political lessons. Even underneath Mycen’s care that short year in Ram, nights had been filled with those lessons by the light of a candle, done while Alm was fast asleep in another room. She remembers Grandfather’s strong voice with a tender fondness, the way he would shift so suddenly from an old farmer back into a noble knight in order to teach her. And then, at the priory, Nomah had given her those same lessons to the best of his ability, though his courtly etiquette had seemed a little rusty compared to Grandfather’s.

So Celica assumed she was at least somewhat-kinda-sorta ready to be a queen. She knew she wasn’t going to be perfect, that it was going to take easing into, and that a lot of the first while would be a very intense trial by fire. She’s fortunate she has Alm as a co-ruler, however, to help and support her, and she has all of her other friends as well. She’s not walking forward blindly or without help, and so she is greatly reassured.

Celica doesn’t have a good opinion of the Zofian nobility, however, and it’s one of the harder parts of getting the One Kingdom on its feet. How is she supposed to have a good opinion of them when they did naught but enable her father, live lives of extreme luxury and excess, and turn a blind eye to the cruelties inflicted upon the common people by those like Grieth? How is Celica supposed to look at these people, many of whom sided with Desaix in the coup, and feel like they have Valentia’s best interest at heart?

How many of these people were complicit in the slaughter of her brothers and sisters?

The feeling seems to be mutual: They don’t like her either. She gets jabs and jeers during meetings, and frequently, she suffers through comments explicitly intended as slights towards her. They ask why she never stepped up to the throne when she heard word of Desaix’s coup. They ask if she even knows anything about being a queen. They insinuate that she’s only a young priestess wearing rose-tinted glasses whenever she suggest they work harder to understand the Rigelian court.

“They’re ludicrous,” she seethes to Boey. They’re in a sitting room, sharing a meal while a few servants bustle around them here and there. It’s a fairly secluded sitting room that not many use, and it’s good for when she needs to do a little smidge of ranting to a friend. “Wanting— _needing_ —to work with the Rigelian nobility is not any ignorance on my part. I’m trying to keep this country from falling to utter pieces, and not one of them will listen to me.”

“While I’m not on their side at all, I will say, to be fair,” Boey starts, “you are barely nineteen. It could be a factor in their behavior.”

Celica feels it might be pompous of her to say, but she reminds him, “But, well, I am royalty. Royalty who has studied, practiced, and trained her entire life to be a good queen should the need have arisen. And it did! And now they won’t listen.”

“You would, in fact, be incorrect in saying it has anything to do with Her Majesty’s age at all.”

Both of them jump as someone comes to stand behind them, but it is a polite distance away. Celica puts her plate, stacked with a sandwich, to the side, politely folds her hands in her lap, and turns in the chair to see who it is. Boey looks slightly flustered at the presence of Clair, and he turns right back around and shoves half of his sandwich in his mouth—a tactic Celica has seen him use plenty of times over the years to avoid conversation.

“Lady Clair,” Celica greets. “What would you be doing here right in the middle of the day?”

She looks nice. Celica thinks she always looks nice, very poised. Her gown today is a vivid red that hangs off her shoulders, trimmed with white lace. Her hair is down, and her bangs are pushed off to the side. Her lips, instead of pink, are painted the same red as her dress, and Celica finds herself staring at them, only a little. She hopes that, if noticed, it can be brushed off as her simply admiring the clean and meticulous application. She hopes it can be brushed off that way, because that’s- that’s what she _thinks_ it is. She can’t think off the top of her head why else she’d be so interested.

“I just so happen to be fond of this sitting room,” Clair says, “but haven’t had the time to do anything leisurely, as of late. I’ve been quite busy.”

Celica spreads her hand open to the chair across from her and Boey, hoping that Clair takes the invitation to sit. She does after a curtsy, and politely crosses her ankles, flares her skirt out around her, and puts her hands in her lap. Celica reaches for the pot of tea they have on the table, which the maids brought with, fortunately, one extra cup—most likely intended for the absent Mae—but Boey beats her to it. Clair smiles as a cup is poured for her, and she produces a handkerchief from the pocket of her dress, sets it primly on her thigh in case she needs it, and takes the cup from a very embarrassed Boey.

“The reason the Zofian nobility doesn’t want to listen to you doesn’t have much of anything to do with your age,” Clair muses. She swirls the tea around her cup lightly as she stares into it, and then takes a sip before continuing. “Well, perhaps it does bother some of them, but it certainly isn’t the predominant reason, Your Majesty.”

“You’re a highborn woman, aren’t you, Lady Clair?” Boey asks. “So… Perhaps you could shine some light on the situation?”

“I’m the second and youngest child of the Chatelain family,” she briefly introduces. “You must be one of the queen’s childhood friends, I presume? You, and the other two sweet girls with pink hair. Where are they?”

“This is Boey. Mae and Genny are back on Novis as of last week,” Celica replies. “Genny was getting homesick and overwhelmed by the castle, and she wanted to go back to her room at the priory and write. Mae went with her so she wouldn’t be alone on the boat ride.”

“Yes, always good for young ones to have escorts, if you ask me.” Clair nods, takes another drink of her tea, and lightly presses her lips against her handkerchief before continuing. “But back to the politics at hand, the reason the nobility don’t want to listen to you is simply because you are not what they were expecting.”

Celica sees Boey frown deeply in her peripheral vision, and he says, “Beg pardon?” before she has the chance.

“The way I understand, many of my fellows had their outlandish ideas about what the long lost Princess Anthiese would be like,” Clair further elaborates. A maid comes forward with a sandwich on a plate, and Clair takes it with a smile. “You can imagine, I understand: The long lost princess, rightful heir to the Zofian throne, lost to a fire…But! There are rumors that she still lives! She must be dashing and courageous, but every bit as graceful and delicate as her queen mother. Oh, what mystery enshrouds her!” She stops her overly-theatrical speech, inclines her head to them, and says, “You see my meaning, Your Majesty?”

Celica does, yes, and she feels embarrassed of it. Her cheeks feel red, and she lifts a hand to play with her hair. Next to her, Boey splutters, “You mean, the- the Zofian court treated Lady Celica like a _story?”_

“Very much so.” Their tea guest swipes a sandwich crumb away from the side of her mouth. “Many a family created their own fiction about her. Why, Fernand’s family thought she would perhaps be a strong, warrior priestess! Clive and my lady mother always said they imagined her as a sweet, demure cleric, hiding away under the Earth Mother’s protective wing. Everyone had their ideas about who Lady Celica would be, and they now find themselves disappointed that she’s not who they built her as in their minds.”

“Thus the cruelty and snubs.” Celica pushes a lock of hair behind her ear. “They all had such different visions of who I would be—it would have been impossible to please all of them, no matter what I was like. I simply wouldn’t stand a chance, no matter who I turned out to be.”

“Some imagined you a brave paladin, some a studious mage, some a valiant pegasus knight.” Clair leans back a little in her chair, just enough to allow comfort, but not enough to make her look slovenly. “I heard many a story about what the long lost Princess Anthiese would be like.”

“Yes, I suppose that would make it hard for milady to appeal to them.” Boey gives Celica an anxious look; his fingers are wringing together in his lap in yet another Nervous Boey Habit. “But, surely, they will warm up to her?”

Celica doesn’t see a possibility of that any time soon, in honesty. She sees it taking a long, long time to learn to appease the court, to unravel their expectations of her and allow them to build new ones—ones more sensible to her actual being.

“Well, of course they will!” Celica looks up as Clair swings a leg over her knee, crossing her legs and revealing a swathe of skin along with a dainty black slipper. Celica’s eyes flicker to the corner of the room. “Because I will make them warm up to her; myself, Lady Mathilda, my lord brother, even General Ezekiel I’m certain, will all make strides to ensure the court opens their minds to Her Majesty. I’m certain Alm is going to need help in that department as well.”

Celica, for the first time in a few days, feels herself smiling. She isn’t actively forcing herself or anything. “That’s quite the offer, Lady Clair. You’re certain that you don’t have any creative visions of me in your mind that you expect me to fulfill?”

“I only expect people to be themselves,” Clair insists. “I was never one for those fictions, you know.”

Celica tilts her head, still smiling, and she doesn’t know why she is. “I see.”

“Besides, I think what you’ve proven to be is much, much more exciting than any nonsense the Zofian court could have woven about you.” Clair takes another drink of her tea, sets it back on the saucer with a soft clink, and places it on a side table. “What more could they want than what you have given?”

The statement catches Celica completely off-guard. She’s never heard the nobility praise her nor Alm in such a way before. She’s never heard any of them so much as even say, “Wow, good job putting those suffering, corrupted gods to rest, Lady Celica, way to do it!”

“Oh.” Celica looks at Boey, who is looking at her with equal shock, and then to Clair. She hears herself say, “Well, th-thank you!”

Clair takes her handkerchief out of her lap and stands, throwing her hair over her shoulder a little. “Just you wait. I’m going to be making myself very present in the coming court gatherings, and I intend to make myself very heard in support of you, Queen Anthiese.”

“Celica,” she says on an instinct. “I told you so before, did I not?”

Clair pockets her handkerchief, folded into fourths, and puts her hands in front of her. “That you did; do forgive me for forgetting. I’ll endeavor to remember your preferred name from now on.” She puts her hands to her skirts, bends an ankle behind the other, and gives a shallow, yet graceful, curtsy, wildly different from her dashing bow in their last encounter. “I’d ask you to excuse me. I have some military business to attend to.”

“Oh, that is right!” Celica puts aside her own tea into Boey’s offered hand. “Alm recently appointed you to the head of the pegasus knight branch, did he not?”

Clair visibly puffs up. She drops her skirt to triumphantly put her hands on her hips. “That he did!” Her hands fall from her hips, and she appears a little sheepish. “Though it does mean I am extremely busy. Please, forgive my hasty exit. I promise my etiquette is usually of only the highest quality.”

“They must be extremely important duties.” Celica extends a hand politely towards the way of the door. “Please, don’t apologize. Boey and I are very grateful for your insight into my problem. It unfortunately leaves it as a problem that cannot be solved, but-”

“As I said, I will make myself _very_ heard,” Clair cuts in. “The development of our new kingdom all depends on all of us working together, led by your and Alm’s competent hands. I will not stand for any murmuring of petty origins!” She starts to march for the door, determination in every step, and calls, “Don’t you worry, I am going to straighten everyone out!”

And then she leaves, and the door shuts softly behind her, a contrast to her determined march on the way out. Celica and Boey, along with a few maids, stare over the backs of their seats at the door, and then look to each other.

“She’s certainly… bold,” Boey offers after a moment. “Lady Clair of House Chatelain, eh? If my studies aren’t doing me wrong, the Chatelain family is one of Zofia’s most well-to-do houses.”

Celica takes her teacup saucer from him again, leaning back in her seat with it, though she doesn’t drink. “Yes,I’ve heard the same. A fine military house, extremely loyal to the crown since Zofia’s founding. Her older brother Clive was the leader of the Knights of Zofia, and he’s been appointed as one of the captains of the new Brotherhood of Knights, alongside General Mathilda and General Ezekiel.”

“I may have seen that Clive guy.” Boey puts a hand to his chin in thought. “Blond, pale, blue armor, weird bowlcut?”

A maid fixing the drapes snorts.

“Boey!” Celica scolds, though her lips tilt up in a smile as she lifts her teacup. “That’s not nice at all.”

“But I’m right,” he counters. He reaches for the coffee table in front of them, picking up a plate of scones and helping himself. “In any case, combine her status as a Chatelain, her position as a war veteran, and her new job as captain of the kingdom’s pegasus knights, and Lady Clair comes out of it a very powerful woman for someone her age. Perhaps it would do you well to get closer to her, as a friend and ally.”

Perhaps it would, Celica thinks.

* * *

Clair is a very, very busy woman.

Widely, her life has been rather unscheduled. For the longest time, the course of her life intended for her to find a spouse with sufficient resources to take care of her, and the marriage would bring great prestige and honor to the Chatelain House. She would marry, possibly have some children, and whittle away her days doing the valuable duties of a lady: Managing the estate, hosting social events, advising her spouse, the like. Being the lady of a house is an important role, no doubt, and a powerful one as well.

Until she was sixteen, her days were filled with not relaxation, but not particularly any sense of urgency. She would wake up at nine at the latest, and a lady-in-waiting would draw a scented bath. She would bathe and soak for a while, perhaps reading a book perched on the lip of the tub, away from the water, or have an attendant read her schedule for the day. Then came breakfast, taken with her parents and sometimes Clive, and then the day would go by, filled with etiquette lessons from a tutor, luncheons with friends, academic courses from a professor, meals with her parents, and lessons on how to manage a house from her mother. And then, she would turn in for bed, do some sloppy sewing (a skill she never caught onto, no matter how her mother and tutors desperately tried to teach), and rest until the next day.

But when she was sixteen, a year before Rigel’s initial invasion before Desaix paid them off, she saw a pegasus knight.

Tall and lean, with hard muscle underneath her warm brown skin. Dents and scratches in her gleaming gold armor, and some wear and tear from her most recent mission in her angelic white dress. Clair had seen her in the halls of the palace, on her way home after taking tea with a friend, and something about the woman simply _moved_ her. The way she walked with a different sort of purpose from Clair herself.

Everything about her was strong. The way she pulled her glittering silver-and-gold helmet from her head, settling it under an arm. The way her short, curly black hair dropped a few ringlets around her face, framing a scar that stretched over her cheek. Her gold, battle-hardened eyes that knew things Clair did not. The pegasus knight exuded honor and dignity, along with the gentle and firm strength required to make a pegasus to bow to one’s will.

The pegasus knight also made Clair realize she was gay.

Her decision to start training as a pegasus knight baffled her family and Fernand, but they only tried to sway her for a week or so. They countered that she was long past the age when her peers began training, that Clive and Fernand had started their training at extremely young ages. A pegasus may not even allow her to mount it. She might decide she didn’t like it. Any number of things could happen—what if a war suddenly started, and she had to fight? Clair has lived at home her whole life, never known anything of the outside world. She wouldn’t survive a battle.

But Clair worked hard. She rose through the ranks of the trainees, catching the eye of a superior or two. The military, they would always say, was clearly in her blood, if her family was anything to go by. Natural talent, they said, but Clair knew, and she still knows: She’s a hard worker most of all, and she knows what she deserves. She knew she deserved a place at the table of the Knights of Zofia, and so she worked hard for it. Weeks before her nineteenth birthday, they knighted her.

And then, only a few months after that, they killed the king, and there was a war. A war that expected her to bow to Desaix and raise her lance in his favor. Half of the Knights of Zofia defected to him, after all, despite the blood on his hands. But Clive and Mathilda and Fernand defected to their own, new side, forming a rebellion that she could not deny.

She could not ever raise her lance for Desaix, not after the truth came out about what he did to the royal children.

Clair survived the war, difficult as it was. She survived her comrades falling around her, and she survived capture. She survived taking Zofia Castle back, and then survived the storming of Desaix’s stronghold. She was promoted to a falcon knight, and then promoted up to a commander, a rank where she stayed as they pressed forward into the cold and harsh Rigelian winter. And she survived near-starvation and battles against Rigel’s most terrifying generals, survived sickness and the loss of friends, and she survived the labyrinths of Duma.

She survived, and she came out of it different than she went into it. She went into the war with bright eyes and all of the confidence in the world, and she came out without her childhood innocence, without all of her brash confidence, without her idealizations of her brother, and without Fernand.

Losing the idealization of Clive had perhaps been the hardest part of the war, speaking in the long-term. Losing her own classist ideas had been good; Clair cringes to think of the way she eagerly chattered on about Alm and his friends about how they surely rolled in the mud, tending to cows and pigs, as though commoners were quaint little farm animals themselves for her to gawk at. She looks back on the way she thought herself above the common people, however unconsciously, and is glad she lost that part of her in the war.

But Clive. With Clive, she started to see his truest ideals shortly before coming to the border of Rigel, when she had overheard Python relaying a conversation with her lord brother to Forsyth and Tobin. Talking lowly, but not lowly enough for her not to hear, about how Clive had said that the social order was how it was for a reason, that it was proper for the nobility to loom above the common people, and that the class system in Valentia was… proper. Proper, and good, and necessary.

It had disappointed Clair for certain. Her friendship with common people had started to sway her viewpoints at that point, broadened her experiences and horizons to take into consideration things she had not through about before. Gray had told her once of Slayde invading their village as a child and attempting to off them all, and she realized he would have gotten away with it, solely because of his status as a knight and a noble. And Clair, once upon a time, knew many a knight like Slayde. Suddenly realizing that not all of her peers were good shook her.

And then Clive had refused to save Delthea, a decision she thought reasonable, at first. Clive had not gone off to save her nor Mathilda in earlier months; there was simply no way he could, not without staking the lives of the then-scarce Deliverance soldiers. But, then, she had started to think: They were on their way to the sluice gate already. They had more than enough soldiers to save one thirteen-year-old girl. The situation was much, much different from what it was in Clair and Mathilda’s cases.

Clive had admitted openly he would save Delthea, were she a noble’s daughter, and Clair believes that that is when her idealization of her older brother had completely shattered.

She still loves Clive, of course. He is her only sibling, and has never been anything but a good brother to her. She would not say she resents him, nor think he does not deserve anything he has gotten after the war: The rank of a captain in the Brotherhood, mostly. She just thinks he is wrong. She just doesn’t agree with him when he argues that aspects of the social order should stay in place during court meetings. She just doesn’t see her older brother as a dashing, all-mighty, chivalrous knight, incapable of doing no wrong, anymore. He’s just Clive, and Clive is just her beloved brother with some backwards ideas.

Clair came out of the war without a lot of things, but with some new things as well. New worldviews, new skills, new experiences, new accomplishments. She came out of the war with new friends as well; Alm, of course, but she hardly separated herself from Gray or Tobin before they all got busy with their own individual duties. She got close to Silque, to Faye, to Delthea, and a little closer to Mathilda as well. And, she did not expect to find friends in Rigel, but it’s hard to come by better people than Tatiana and General Ezekiel.

Alm promoted her to captain of the pegasus knights only days after the end of the war, while he was drafting out plans for the restructuring of the army. It’s only been a few weeks since then, but she’s been wildly busy, moving between her duties as a member of her family’s house and her new duties as the captain of the pegasus knights. She has training to plan, soldiers to recruit, pegasi to manage, documents to fill out, meetings to attend, and the list goes on and on and on.

Currently, she’s leaving her quarters, feeling much more free in her military clothing over her fancy dress and shoes. She’s off to a meeting, and has dressed appropriately for the occasion: Tight-fitting trousers, boots, and a military coat does the trick. She admits she’s taken many cues on how to dress for these things from both Mathilda and Zeke. It’s appropriate to wear clothes that one _could_ wear on the battlefield, but would not really. She fiddles with the brass buttons as she walks down the hall, and somewhere along the way, Mathilda falls into step with her.

“Are you ready for another fun-filled meeting?” Mathilda asks.

Clair laughs and pulls at her gloves. “Yes, most certainly. What are we discussing today?”

Mathilda has a planner under her arm, and as they walk, she opens it up. She studies it, humming, and then says, “Clive sent us a report from his position in the south regarding the war recovery there. It seems we’ll be discussing that and how we should proceed with sending out resources and soldiers.”

“Do we really need soldiers so far south?” Clair asks.

“There are lingering Terrors and witches roaming,” Mathilda reminds. “Arcanists and cantors of the Faithful as well; those who have lost their minds after Duma went to sleep. Their power has weakened without him to support them for certain, but to a common villager unfortunate enough to come across one, still a force to be reckoned with.”

“Terrible,” Clair murmurs. “And we are certain there’s no way to help the witches?”

“Sonya—you recall, that woman who allied herself with the queen?—is up on Fear Mountain researching it. If she’s made any progress regarding reverting the women to their original forms, the information has not been shared with us. I imagine there is no way to help them; putting them out of their misery seems the kindest thing to do.”

“It makes it sound like we’re putting down sick dogs,” Clair says. “They used to be human! But-”

“Their souls aren’t there anymore,” Mathilda tells her. “What would you prefer if your only options were to wander, mindless, filled with only a lingering impulse for destruction, or to be dead?”

Clair does not reply. She doesn’t particularly like thinking about being dead, much like most people.

“Unpleasantness aside, we’re nice and early,” Mathilda says as they get to the doors of the conference room. “We ought to have a few minutes to ourselves before the others start flooding in.”

The conference room is big and broad, able to fit about thirty people, if only based on the number of chairs at the table. It’s tall, like most rooms in the Zofian castle, decorated with sprawling marble columns, a gold chandelier, and soft, red-and-white rugs. The large oak table, when they enter, is set with small tea dishes, a few coffee kettles, and baskets of pastries. Some are studded with bacon and herbs, likely as a savory option, but most are smeared with pastry creams and jams, dusted with powdered sugar, or else are what look like normal slabs of shortbread.

It’s not usual for there to be snacks at a meeting like this one, and it’s really not particularly usual to find General Ezekiel kissing his wife in the conference room.

It doesn’t look to Clair like a particularly amorous kiss; more like something that just so happened as he—based on the handkerchief in his hand, pressed against her wrist he is now holding—cleaned her of something. Just a little kiss, done in their newlywed honeymoon phase, which they seem to be so deeply lost in that the opening of the door and the arrival of Clair and Mathilda hasn’t really registered with them.

Mathilda knocks on one side of the doors just as Clair says, “Goodness, pardon us.”

“Sorry to barge in,” Mathilda says cooly, and Zeke and Tatiana instantly snap away from one another. He throws her wrist down just as she yanks it away from him. Flustered, Tatiana reaches up and pats a kerchief in her hair, then busies herself with tinkering with one of the tea trays on the meeting table. Zeke clears his throat and puts his hands behind his waist in perfect military form, dithers, and then takes his seat near the head of the table.

“Newlyweds canoodling, I see?” Clair teases. “A husband and wife putting their hands on each other, how scandalous!”

“We just-” Tatiana swallows as she picks up a little white teacup, turning it in her hands nervously. “Oh, I’m so glad it was only you two. Last week, I had this real awful Zofian noblewoman get mad at me for giving Zeke a little peck before he went into a meeting. Gods forbid what would’ve happened if it was a courtier who had walked in.”

“Despite our attempts at making a more even social system,” Zeke explains, folding his hands in front of him, “it seems that there are still many people who frown upon a matrimony between a knight and a-”

Tatiana angrily opens the teaset’s matching sugarcube jar, which is something Clair did not know you could do angrily. “She called me a hillbilly, too!”

“How horrid!” Clair takes a seat a little further down the table, just a couple of places away from where Mathilda will sit across from Zeke. “You are not a hillbilly, you’re just… rustic.”

“‘Rustic,’” echoes Tatiana, and then she smiles good-naturedly as she calms. “Well, I think that’s a much nicer way of saying more or the less same thing.”

“What is all of this?” Mathilda asks, brushing aside the unpleasantness. She sweeps her hand out towards the pastries and coffee kettles when Tatiana tilts her head.

“Oh.” Tatiana holds her tea tray up and hugs it to her chest. “I- I can’t really help that much with this stuff you’re all doing. I’m not military or a politician, and unless you rush into another fight anytime soon and need someone to stitch you back together, I’m not really able to heal either. I thought I’d make myself useful by making some refreshments.”

“Very thoughtful. Thank you very much; they look quite delicious.” Clair plucks up a dish from a tray and holds it in front of her. “Are you all aware of the issue of the court not respecting Lady Celica?” She pauses at Zeke and Mathilda’s curious glances, and remedies herself with, “Queen Anthiese, that is.”

“I don’t make it a habit to interact with the court,” Zeke says, “save for when it concerns Alm.”

“Is Alm in much trouble?” Mathilda asks.

Tatiana and Zeke look at each other, slightly fretful looks on their faces. She busies herself by picking up a kettle, wrapping a cloth around the handle, and bringing it over to Clair, where she takes a teacup from the tray and pours rich brown coffee into it. Zeke puts a hand on the back of his neck and grimaces, then sighs and folds his hands together once more.

“Alm wasn’t raised a Rigelian, you know. The boy is Rigelian only in blood to these people. They feel there’s a severe imbalance between the Zofians who have been placed in positions of power in the One Kingdom, and the Rigelians who have been put into power,” Zeke explains.

Clair looks up into Tatiana’s face as she mixes her coffee for her, with a sugarcube and a splash of cream just as she likes it. Her friend looks abashed, eyes averted, perhaps embarrassed of her fellow countrymen. Or, if Clair looks closer, scrutinizes her a little harder, she thinks she seems some sympathy when her husband speaks. She meets Clair’s eyes, realizes she’s staring at her, and looks away guiltily. It only makes sense for Tatiana to acutely feel the imbalance as well, being Rigelian right down to her bones.

“That makes sense.” Clair takes the coffee from Tatiana, who leans back against the table. “I mean… That is true.”

Mathilda opens her mouth to speak, perhaps in protest, but Tatiana cuts her off as she ticks things off of her fingers. “Zeke is the only Rigelian general. Father Nomah from the Church of Mila took over the religions when they combined. The new capital is based here, in the old Zofian capital. Alm _was_ raised as a Zofian, even if he’s as Rigelian as I am in blood. And, it does seem to me from what Zeke says that many of the Rigelian nobles get spoken over in meetings.”

Clair looks at Mathilda, who seems to be floundering a little in the face of these facts. She opens her mouth, seems to think better of it, and closes it, only nodding in what could either be agreement, or simple acknowledgement.

“The point is that Alm was raised Zofian, as we’ve said. The Rigelian faction of the new court feels that this has led him to have a bias towards the placement of Zofian figures in positions of power in the new One Kingdom,” Zeke continues. “Mathilda, you are aware that you and Clive were originally supposed to be the only captains of the Brotherhood, correct? Alm appointed me as the third when it became apparent that the two of you would have your hands full on your own, and when the Rigelian nobles rallied against the decision.”

“It would be important for a militaristic nation like Rigel to have one of their own in charge of the new military,” Clair muses. “I do recall Alm telling me it placated them, though. Am I wrong?”

“In my time on this continent, I have found favor with many Rigelians,” he says carefully. “I’ve encountered few who have not treated me as one of their own. However, I have my enemies, for a variety of reasons. Particularly, they never cared for the fact that an immigrant took up a role of such prominent power in the Rigelian military. They didn’t care for it back then, and now they especially don’t care for an immigrant being their only representation on this level of power in the military.”

“Oh, gracious.” Clair swirls a small stirring spoon through her coffee. “I never knew courts were so- so fickle and disagreeable! My parents, Clive, and Fernand never told me They always made it seem like court meetings were just our peers getting together in a room, eating sweets and tea while they talked about the weather.”

Mathilda laughs, a harsh, barking sound in her chest, as she helps herself to a savory pastry. Tatiana crosses the table to her and starts to pour her a cup of black coffee as well. “Now, what a treat that would be! Courtiers getting along sounds like the highest degree of heaven, if you ask me.”

“Why can’t people just get along?” Clair asks. “I understand everyone having different concerns and interests, but I’m so particularly upset by the treatment of Queen Celica.” She notices Zeke raising a brow at her, and quickly remedies, “I mean, Queen Anthiese. Most of the Zofian faction of the court refuse to listen to a word she says, all because she’s not the outlandish, idealized person they wanted her to be.”

Zeke puts his chin against a fist. “Mathilda here or your brother, once he returns, would be the ones to speak to on that matter. Despite our attempts to try and soften the lines between Rigelian and Zofian, I do still represent the Rigelian faction of the military, and have next to nothing to do with the Zofian nobility at all. I can try to put in a good word here and there for Her Majesty among my peers, but my hands are rather full already just trying to get the court to open up to Alm.”

“I saw her today, just an hour ago,” Clair tells them. She looks down into her cup, watching a swirl of cream circle through the coffee. Her lump of sugar is bobbing along the surface, still melting away. “She seemed so distressed and annoyed. I did hate to see her like that. She’s the rightful queen, and more competent than Lima ever was already! Is it not our duty as the nobility and knights to support our rulers when they are fair and just?”

“Celica did seem like an awful sweet girl when I met her back in Rigel,” Tatiana says. She scrunches up her face in confusion and puts a finger to her lips. “I don’t see why anyone would be mean to her.”

“It’s a general quality any court has, my darling,” Zeke mutters. “They’re simply just, as you put it quite well, ‘mean.’”

“Very well put,” Mathilda adds. “Pass me that pastry with the red jam on it?”

Clair fishes around the basket and pulls it out, then leans over the table to hand it to Mathilda. She pulls a handkerchief from her breast pocket, wipes her fingers clean of powdered sugar, and follows Zeke’s form and primly puts her hands together on the table. She tilts her head up. “Well, at the next meeting, I intend to advocate very heavily my support for Queen Anthiese. I believe it is what she deserves. She’s been in hiding since she was such a young thing, preparing to be queen the whole time.”

“It’s nonsense indeed for our peers to have expected a lost princess to have done something about Desaix,” Mathilda agrees. “Especially when he was the one who forced her to go into hiding.”

“And didn’t you all think she was dead?” Tatiana asks. “Even I heard stories about that on the borderlands. Everyone thought Princess Anthiese had burned up in that fire. Isn’t it kinda weird to think a girl is dead, but also expect her to fix your problems?”

“Thinking it’s odd implies the court has logic to spare,” Clair snaps. “Insufferable fools, all of them. I’m glad I’ve never had to deal with them before now!”

“Well, you had ought to strap in for a long, long life of dealing with them, now that you’re in a position of power,” Zeke advises. “They’re a fickle, crude bunch of people. I’m sure Mathilda will attest to the cruelties of the Zofian court.”

Mathilda cuts into her pastries. “Bastards, the lot of them. They’re unwilling to let go of the social structure. Many are worked into a lather over Alm and Queen Anthiese allowing common people to enlist in the new Brotherhood. And don’t even get me started on the ones who have taken after the late King Lima in terms of their more hedonistic behaviors.”

Tatiana presses her lips and hovers behind Zeke, her expression reflecting very well what Clair and Mathilda feel.

“How do you cope with it?” Clair asks Mathilda and Zeke. “The constant nonsense, I mean. I haven’t the faintest idea of how to deal with it except to go home and scream into my pillow, and that is _not_ very ladylike.”

Mathilda waves a hand in an exhausted gesture. “I block it out when I can. I just find myself wanting to put someone’s head through a wall if I pay it any close mind.”

“I have found it’s soothing to have someone to go home to,” Zeke replies. Tatiana slips her arms around him from behind, pushing a kiss against the top of his head. One of his hands reaches up, delicately wrapping around her wrist, and he looks relaxed and peaceful. “Better to go home and have company from someone you like than to stew in anger alone over people you don’t.”

Clair grumbles and puts a cheek in a hand. She doesn’t exactly see herself having time to court anyone anytime soon, not when she’s running helter skelter this way and that all the time, and she tells everyone so.

“You’ll find the time,” Mathilda says. “Take it from me. Courting when you’re so busy isn’t easy, but if you find someone who likes you a lot, they’ll be patient. You could also always find someone as busy as you, and that will fix that problem.”

Clair puts her hands over her head. “I’d like to stop talking about my love life now! We have more important things to worry about.”

“So we do. Best busy ourselves until everyone else arrives.” Zeke runs a hand over the smooth wood of the table, looking quite distant, and then says, “Have you heard about the news in Archanea?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have a double-chapter update in honor of femslash feb and the fact that i Suck and..... take months at a time to update :) my excuse this time is that I Have Writer's Block. not a ton of celiclair itself in today's chapters, as we are continuing to set up more of the political scene, but Soon. Soon.

In childhood, Alm always seemed to walk with a certain sureness in his step. Celica recalls it fondly; it was never any sort of cocky or overconfident walk. Just sort of like he knew exactly where he was going to go, what he was going to do. It was this assuredness that she never had any issues tagging along with him. He never seemed like he was going to drag her into something stupid or get her in trouble. More often than not, they left shenanigans like that up to Gray and Tobin.

Yet, Celica has noticed that recently, he’s lost that sure and strong stride in his step. He walks more carefully, more hesitantly. He walks with a great amount of uncertainty, and she can understand why. Nothing in their lives is sure, right now. They have to be careful where they tread, or else it seems like Valentia will collapse around them. It’s them against the world, and Alm certainly walks like it.

He doesn’t walk that way now, though. Alm seems confident in this idea that he’s offered her: a chance to get an in with the Rigelian faction of the court. The Zofians still have their heels in the dirt, she had mused to him over breakfast, and there’s little chance she’ll curry favor with them any time soon. Of course, the Rigelians certainly aren’t sidling up to pour her a glass of wine and get all buddy-buddy, but they honestly seem less daunting at this point. They seem like a start.

Alm walks down the halls of the castle surely, and Celica follows right on his heels. This is the most certain he’s looked in weeks, and it’s relieving, truly, to see a smile on his face. He looks over at her, and she notes that he still looks kinda silly, dressed in these formal clothes. They don’t exactly suit him, not yet. Grandfather taught Alm many things, but he never taught him how to wear a suit, a fur cloak, a crown. He looks at her, and Celica wonders if she looks similar, like a child trying to play dress-up in her mother’s gowns and circlet.

Celica nods to a maid as they pass by, smiling, and is glad that the maid smiles back easily. She looks to Alm, then over his shoulder at the hallway they’re walking down. “So, you’re sure that this is a good idea?”

“Oh, I’m sure that this is a great idea.” Alm keeps walking. She’s glad that he seems like he knows where he’s going, because she knows that both of them still get lost in the castle sometimes. “He’s been teaching me about Rigelian culture. Where he can, I mean.”

Celica locks her hands behind her back and hums as they take one more turn. They find themselves in front of a large corridor, lined with a few doors, and Alm keeps walking until he stops in front of the largest one in the hall. The big, oak doors are dark and heavy, just as regal as everything else in the Zofian palace. Though, she would describe this room as a little less decadent, which she is glad for. Celica doesn’t like seeing reminders of her father’s gaudy, expensive taste at every single turn.

She looks up at the door dubiously, then looks to Alm. “Should we bother him? Isn’t he busy?”

“And we aren’t?” Alm smiles and shakes his head. “Really, though. It’ll be fine, promise. I know he looks intimidating, but he’s a real sweet guy.” He falters for a moment, chewing his lip and looking suddenly concerned. “He’s been a little weird lately, since we were down in the labyrinth, but it’ll be fine. He’s fine.”

It sounds a lot to Celica like Alm is just trying to reassure himself. Of what, she’s not entirely sure.

Alm knocks on the big oak doors once, twice, three times, and then pulls his hand back and waits. They don’t wait for long, however—a strong voice from inside the room says, almost immediately, “Please, come in.” And Alm, obviously comfortable, pushes open the doors.

The inside of this office is stately, befitting of its occupant. A large, intricate carpet rests over the hardwood floors, and it is bursting with all manner of color. The pattern it boasts might be some sort of Rigelian flower. Celica looks to the back of the room and finds it is lined with books, which she presumes are probably texts relating to history, war tactics, the like. In the far corner is a chalkboard, and drawn upon it are what appear to be battle strategies for a cavalry squad. Next to it is a table stacked with more books and more maps. The other side of the room is more casual, she finds: there is a table with a tray of refreshments, some contraption that is playing a tune, and a crackling fireplace.

Situated in the center of the room is a grand, mahogany desk, covered with more books, parchment, ink bottles, picture frames. Behind it all, they find General Ezekiel, preoccupied with writing something. He has not looked up from whatever it is he is penning, but greets them regardless with, “Ah, Alm, right on time-”

Alm clears his throat, smiling as he looks over at Celica. Ezekiel discards his quill into an inkwell and looks up at them. She feels her stomach flip a little at the very sight of him. He’s as handsome as she recalls him from their meetings in Rigel, with shining gold hair, a strong jaw. But, he’s also as intimidating as she remembers him. She can’t quite pin down what it is; maybe it’s his formalwear. Maybe it’s his size. Maybe it’s that uncomfortably piercing look in his eyes. He’s wearing a pair of reading glasses that he slips from his nose with one hand, and he, unfortunately, looks directly at her.

“Celica is with me today,” Alm says. “It’s a last-minute thing, so I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

In a second, Ezekiel stands so quickly that his legs bump into his desk, and his chair nearly goes toppling. Celica presses her lips in a barely concealed smile at this mildly less-composed version of him. He looks less and less put-together as he processes her presence, and she can see how tight his grip on his eyeglasses is. He stands straight when he has his bearings and clears his throat, one of his hands finding its way to rest politely on his chest.

“I- I do mean King Albein, of course. And, ah, Queen Anthiese. Your Majesties.” His eyes are flickering between the two of them. The music carries on, uninterrupted, in the background. “How might I assist you?”

Alm moves forward a bit to stand between Celica and Ezekiel. “I’m sure you guys were briefly introduced back in Rigel, but: Celica, this is Zeke. Zeke, Celica.” He spreads open a hand towards Zeke and nods to her. “Zeke was a Rigelian general, and was one of my father’s more trusted companions. He’s probably the only Rigelian of prominence around here that doesn’t hate our guts.”

“Oh, that is not true,” Ezekiel assures hastily. He’s still looking at Celica nervously, hand still to his breast, as though he’s as intimidated of her as she is of him. She tries to not frown as she wonders what the best way to get them comfortable with one another is. “I- Ah, well… Perhaps it is true. But, I am not all that popular with the Rigelians either. We have that in common, my lord.”

Alm looks between them again, his gaze grazing Celica’s own. He jerks his head subtly towards Zeke, and she takes the hint.

Celica manages a curtsy, but is promptly embarrassed when she thinks upon Lady Clair’s perfect form from a couple of days ago, and how hers must compare. “I remember you from a few meetings. I’m delighted to meet you on a more personal level, Sir Ezekiel.” She smiles blankly for a second, scouring her mind for something she can say, but she’s never too sure of what to say to military types. Military culture, Rigelian or Zofian, has never been her strongest suit; the military presence on Novis was all but nonexistent. “Please, be at ease.”

That’s what they say in the military, she thinks. She’s pretty sure.

Ezekiel stares at her quizzically, which whisks her brief confidence away pretty quickly. He drops his hand, regardless of his confusion, which joins his other behind his back. His posture is looser, and he just stares at her, possibly amused and bemused at the same time. The music fills the room, louder in this silence Celica thinks she has created.

Alm coughs into a hand and leans towards her, whispering lowly, “In Rigel, ‘at ease’ is just a fancy way of telling a soldier to can it and listen to you.” There’s a tremble of laughter in his voice. “You just told him to shut up.”

Celica blushes to her roots and regards Ezekiel, who is staring at her expectantly and politely, again. She fumbles a little as she says, “Oh, no, I just mean- Please, don’t be at ease, just-” She shoves her tongue into her cheek and narrows her eyes, wondering why everything lately seems so hard, why she can’t seem to do a single thing right. Maybe she’s just trying too hard. She sighs and lowers her head, already exhausted. “Please, just treat me the way you would treat Alm is what I mean to say.”

Ezekiel takes a sigh and drops his posture. One of his hands lowers to his desk, which he brushes the surface of with his fingers. “Forgive me if I am not quite that lax with you, my lady Anthiese. I believe you are a person deserving of a great amount of respect.”

She smiles as she hears Alm, offended, quietly mutter, “And I’m not? Geez.”

Ezekiel only smiles at this and crosses his desk to meet him. He stops in front of Celica, towering over her, and bows politely and deeply. “I am honored to be your obedient servant, Your Majesty. Tell me, if you wish, what do you need? I am sure you made the trip up to this floor for a reason.”

Celica notes that he has an accent. Not a Rigelian accent, but something a little thinner and light. There is something about the way he enunciates every one of his letters and pronounces his words that is even more foreign than a typical Rigelian dialect. She finds this odd; no one ever told her that Ezekiel wasn’t from Rigel, or even Valentia as a whole. Though curious, she decides it’ll be easier to ask Alm about it later. It’s not like she’s on a level of familiarity where she can make small talk with Ezekiel. He’s still towering over her, his presence stifling and intimidating.

“Alm brought me here for advice,” she tells him. “I was saying that I wanted to try and get an in with the Rigelian parts of the court, since I seem to be hopeless at winning any favor with the Zofians right now.”

Ezekiel sweeps his hands behind his back again and browns, furrowing his brow. “Politics, is it? I may be able to offer some insight. I have some coffee prepared, if you two would like to get comfortable.”

Celica takes a step forward and Ezekiel extends an arm out to the table in the corner of his office, the one nestled by the fireplace and the music-playing contraption. She turns her head to look at Alm, about to propose that they take a seat, but-

“I’ve gotta get going.” Alm is hovering near the door, one hand on the knob with the other raised to them in farewell. “Got, you know. King things to do. Stuff. See ya.”

Warningly, Celica shakes her head at him just a but, raises a hand in a small plea. Alm looks her straight in the eyes—the little weasel—and he smiles, slips out the door, and shuts it behind him. Alm has effectively left her alone with just Ezekiel and his music, and she isn’t sure of what to say.

Ezekiel clears his throat. “Ah, well.” He looks, still, as nervous and intimidated as she feels, and it’s a relief to her that they’re not in some one-way anxiety loop. It’s obviously a nervous gesture, the way he smooths a hand over the front of his waistcoat and looks to the opposite side of the room. “That boy, always running off to do something or other.”

“Yes, indeed.” Celica looks back to the sitting area in the corner of the room, steels her nerves, and makes for it. She tells herself as she walks that she doesn’t have any reason to be discomforted by Ezekiel, beyond the fact that she always gets a little antsy with military types. She even gets a bit jittery when she finds herself in the presence of General Mathilda. Maybe it’s because she apparently doesn’t know how to talk to them without accidentally telling them to shut up.

“Let me prepare the drinks.” Ezekiel walks past her towards the table, nodding politely as he goes. “I was expecting to take coffee with Alm, as we tend to do. I am sorry if you are more of a tea person. Would you like me to call for something else?”

“Oh, coffee is just fine, thank you.” Celica hovers next to him, awkwardly, watching as he moves the mugs around, arranges some plates. She smooths a hand over the skirt of her gown. It’s a soft blue and gold, apparently styled after something her mother once wore, according to the seamstress. It’s a little bit stiff, but she would rather deal with a stiff dress than people she doesn’t know giving her snide looks as she passes them in the hallways, all because she isn’t wearing high fashion.

Celica looks back to his bookshelves, and then turns her head towards the music, coming from a contraption just a few feet away. The music has been interesting her for a while; it’s classy and soft, with soothing notes that she can pick out all the better the more she listens to it. Curious, she steps towards the device and leans forward to inspect it.

The machine is tall, perched atop a base of elegantly carved wood that matches Ezekiel’s desk nicely. The sides are trimmed with gold detailing, swirling into a pattern that she recognizes as Rigelian in nature. The contraption itself is sort of like a box, with a black top and wooden bottom. Attached to it is a large, golden horn, flaring out like a flower’s petals and spreading the music through the room. There is a panel on the top, and what looks like a glass disc is swirling atop it in a rhythmic motion. A small arm with a needle is pressed down over the glass disc, but she can’t imagine what it is for.

There is something familiar about the machine, actually, but she can’t quite put her finger on it.

“Have you ever seen one?” Ezekiel is looking at her expectantly, paused as he pours coffee into one of the delicate mugs. He tilts his head at her when she doesn’t reply, then nods at the contraption. “A record player, I mean.”

The term hits Celica upside the head, and she suddenly recalls where she has seen one of these. The memories it brings to mind are not entirely unpleasant, but she doesn’t care for them much, either. She doesn’t care that much for any memories that she associates with the late king Lima.

“I’ve seen one of these as a child,” Celica tells him. “I believe my father had one. May I?” She waits for Ezekiel to tell her it is alright before she reaches down and lifts the arm with the needle up. The smooth sound of the instruments stops coming from the horn, and she observes the machine more closely. “I don’t think it was quite like this, however. The one I remember was bigger, bulkier. You had to crank it in order for it to play, if I recall right.”

“This must be a new model, then,” he says. The sound of coffee being poured is audible, now that the music has stopped. “Wonderful make, isn’t it? I think it is beautiful.”

Celica removes her fingers from the arm and grips the golden horn, looking the machine up and down. “I always wanted to know how one of these worked, but I was always too scared to ask my father.” Despite herself, her lip curls. “I doubt he’d have known anyway. He never appreciated how things worked. He only cared that they did.”

She hears the sound of a kettle being set down on a tray; a sound that she has grown familiar with in the recent weeks, from when maids serve her in her study as she pores over books and documents. She looks up as Ezekiel joins her, and jumps a little at his sudden closeness. He still looms, but from this close distance, he actually doesn’t seem as intimidating to her. That look in his eyes is still piercing and sharp, like he knows something she doesn’t, but she can also see a gentle slope in their shape, the tired lines beneath them, and the soft, appealing curve of his lips as he smiles fondly at the record player.

He puts a hand atop the wood of the contraption. “I could not claim to know entirely how it works. It’s a device whose origins rest in Archanea. From what I have read, though, it employs some mixture of magic and engineering to hold vibrations or such in the glass discs. Unfortunately, that is all I think I can say on it.”

“Even just that is fascinating. What a great blend of magic and inventing!” Celica observes the player, tilting this way and that to fully observe it. “These must be very expensive, Sir Ezekiel.”

“Oh, yes. Wildly so. They are certainly no household object.” Ezekiel pats the wood, then draws back to move towards the table again. “I inherited this from Emperor Rudolf. It was- it was something he kept in his personal study. He would always play strings as he did his paperwork. I remember that about him very fondly.”

From Rudolf—Celica imagines that this was a gift from Alm to Zeke, then. She releases the horn and starts to swipe at it, trying to remove some smudges from the metal. “You were close to the late emperor?”

From his place at the table, Ezekiel takes a deep sigh that causes his shoulders to sag. He shakes his head, but it’s more forlorn than disagreeing. “I had no name, no status, no nothing when I came to these shores. Emperor Rudolf gave me my name and my job.” He picks up the kettle from the table and move it to the back of the table. “I would not be here were it not for him. I may have been given purpose by another, but he gave me the stability I needed to make a new life.”

“I see.” Celica keeps her eyes on the machine. “I imagine it’s that closeness you had with him that would give Alm the idea to refer me to you.”

“I imagine so, but as I said, I also rarely find favor with the Rigelian court. People detested me for gaining my position. Someone always seemed to be out to tear me down. But, I do think I picked up some trade secrets from my time spent with the emperor.” Ezekiel looks over his shoulder at her. “I do not oft attend the court meetings. Do you mind if I ask what you have tried, in terms of getting ‘close’ with them?”

Celica walks along the bookshelf wall, studying the titles. She locks her hands behind her back and looks back at Ezekiel with a frown. “The basics is all, unfortunately. We’ve only been at it for a few weeks now. So, it’s really just been talking, but that hasn’t gotten me or Alm anywhere with anyone.” She looks up at a particular section of books, interested in the foreign language they seem to be written in. “I think it’s about time we start delving into maybe culture and the like. You know, understanding their culture to understand them, and what they want and need, and how they’re willing to cooperate.”

“I think that is a smart idea, if the basics are not working for you, and I will be glad to help.” Ezekiel hums, and she hears him clap his hands together as he finishes setting the table. “You may come sit, when you wish.”

“Oh, thank you.” Celica smiles and looks to the bookshelf. “I’m just admiring your collection for a moment longer here, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, my lady.”

Celica looks upon the books, and then turns her gaze to some that are sitting on his desk. As expected, the ones she can read the titles of look like they’re about war and history. Of course, she wouldn’t expect a general to have any novels in his own office. She looks at a green book, and then gradually sweeps her eyes over the rest of his desk, finding nothing new: it’s all just ink bottles, quills, files, a few baubles. The only thing new is that she can see the picture frames more clearly, and what they have in them.

There are two frames, and the paintings within depict a gentle-looking young woman with curling, soft green hair, warm skin, and a bright smile. One of them is a simple portrait of her from the bust up, her head tilted and her eyes soft, her hair swept over her shoulder. The other is a bit larger, taking up a corner of the desk. Celica finds, upon a closer examination, that it includes Ezekiel as well. The young woman is leaning just so against him, dressed in a beautiful white gown. The detailing of it has been painstakingly painted, and she can make out the rows and rows of lace in the veil that is draped over her head. Ezekiel, dressed in a pristine black uniform, medals on his chest and a cloak over one shoulder, is holding one of her hands: it’s a wedding portrait.

She recognizes the young woman after a few moments as Tatiana, the Rigelian cleric who occasionally tended to her and Alm back in Rigel Castle. She then recalls somewhere in the back of her mind an offhand comment Alm had made about her being in a relationship with Ezekiel, but it’s been a few weeks. She had forgotten, as she had expected to never see the woman again.

“This is your wife, right?” Celica asks. Ezekiel looks up from his place by the fire and tilts his head at her. Even from the distance, she can see his eyes light up. “She’s very beautiful.”

Ezekiel smiles then, just a touch, and a visible hint of color comes to his face. “She really is, is she not?” He puts down a fire poker and comes over to the desk, sweeping up the portrait of her in his hand to look at it fondly. “She is a marvel in all ways, truly. She has the most gorgeous eyes; the paint hardly does their color any justice.”

He seems lost in the portrait, and the fondness in his face makes Celica, very suddenly, find it hard to see how she was so intimidated by this man a mere five minutes ago. He speaks gently, despite his size, and talks of his wife with such reverence that she is actually finding it a bit hard to believe that this is Rigel’s renowned General Ezekiel, dramatically whispered to be the mortal incarnation of some war god, one of the most fearsome warriors Valentia has ever seen. To Celica, he just sort of looks like a lovestruck doof.

“Congratulations on your marriage,” she says. “I didn’t know there’d been a wedding. Given your status and all, I would’ve thought it would be a huge to-do.”

“It was only a few weeks ago,” he admits. “We just did something quiet. We had been discussing marriage a while ago, but then the war started. Things got busy. So, we decided to jump into it shortly before we moved here for work.”

“I see.” Celica turns her eyes to the wedding portrait once more, dragging her gaze over the depiction of Tatiana’s wedding gown. She feels an inexplicable turning in her gut, and is annoyed that she finds herself wondering, _Could I wear a dress like that one day? Am I_ expected _to?,_ and it fills her with more discomfort as she starts to think about all of the political implications. She clears her throat and turns towards the table, taking stiff steps towards it. “Shall we discuss business, Sir Ezekiel?”

“Oh, please, my lady.” Ezekiel sets down the frame and gestures to the the table. “I think I can help you with your problem, to some extent.”

* * *

Celica’s conversation with Ezekiel turns into a walk, immediately after they finish with their coffee and initial discussion. It was a simple talk, just them getting into further details of what she had tried in her negotiating with the Rigelians, nothing much. But, there weren’t many details to share; the few meetings in the past weeks have only been a game of “Sure, You Can Shout Pretty Loud, But Watch Me Shout Louder.”

She imagines there is intent in him escorting her politely outdoors, especially when she is a bit underdressed for the slight chill in the air. It’s nippy, but she is not delicate, and she has been through much worse. Ezekiel looks noble, just as he always seems to, in the intricate coat he has put on. Celica thinks they probably look like quite the pair: the reviled queen and Valentia’s most controversial military commander.

“Nice day for the time of year, is it not?” Ezekiel walks two steps behind her, and never ahead, she notices. It makes her feel in control, regal. At least this one small thing can. “Do you like the early springtime, Lady Anthiese?”

They’re on the ground floor of the palace now, taking a turn towards the eastern training grounds. The hallway here is open, and a gentle breeze comes through the columns. The garden is in the distance, and it pleases her to see the greenery sprouting, rather than wilting as she knows many were concerned it would.

“I’m not that used to the cold,” Celica admits as she looks out at the shrubs. “Novis, where I trained as a priestess, was an island on the more tropical side of things. It very rarely got cold, but we certainly dealt with our fair share of it in Rigel. I’m adjusted, I would say.”

“Tatiana and I lived on the seashore,” Ezekiel tells her. He turns his head and also looks out at the gardens; they pause to admire it. “The western ocean is very cold. Winter was always quite chilling.” He looks ahead again and nods. “I do not mean to distract you from the flowers, but we’ll be at the training grounds momentarily. These are the ones that the Rigelians have taken to using.”

Celica winces. “Really? Rigelians, Zofians; have they truly even segregated themselves into different training grounds?”

“Alas, so it appears. There was some effort from General Mathilda and myself to conduct some training together, but it quickly proved that Rigelian and Zofian training styles are too different. The soldiers quickly became frustrated, and we had fights break out.” He frowns and dips his head. “I ask that you consider forgiving me for being unable to bring them together. I was appointed under the assumption that I would be able to get my soldiers to play nice with Mathilda’s, but I fear I have failed thus far.”

“Oh, no!” Celica pauses again and throws up her hands, waving them a little. “You shouldn’t feel bad, really. You’re trying, just like we all are. I don’t expect you to solve all these problems, especially when they’re the fault of the soldiers and all these damned prejudices.”

Ezekiel pauses next to her and looks away, sheepish as he rubs the back of his neck. His shoulders slump a little, and he looks slightly hapless. “I- I suppose that is true, but… I feel as though I could do better. Alas, my mind has been preoccupied.”

She tilts her head up at him, trying her best to not frown at his expression. Sheepish for certain, but she also sees the telltale signs of extra worry; it’s an expression she’s found herself wearing for many years, nearly every time she has confronted herself in a mirror. She turns her eyes towards the end of the walkway, where a quaint gazebo rests. “That’s alright. It’s only expected for you to have things on your mind; newlywed and all, isn’t that it?”

Celica knows that that isn’t it. She knows his expression too well, and she’s starting to see why Sir Ezekiel made her uncomfortable at first. Maybe that look he wears reminds her too much of herself.

“Yes, that is it.” Ezekiel starts walking ahead of her, a tell-tale sign of his flustering. Celica doesn’t bring this up and only trails behind him, suddenly uncomfortably aware of his own sudden anxiety.

He pulls out a chair for her when they get to the gazebo. The sound of grunting and wood clapping together has been audible for a while now, but it is especially so as they take their seats and look out towards the yard. The grounds are full of people in light leather armor, swinging practice swords at one another. There are others standing on the sidelines, waiting and watching. Celica looks, but she sees no military commander present.

Ezekiel eases down into a chair and faces the training yard. “They do this for fun,” he says, as though reading her mind. “It’s simple play to them. Most of these people are not even soldiers.”

It’s unsurprising to Celica. Combat—not violence, she tells herself, just combat—is such a central core value of Rigel. It makes perfect sense that swinging wooden swords would be their favorite form of exercise, even for people who aren’t military. She leans forward in her seat and rests her arms on the cool, woven metal of the delicate table, watching closely. She picks out vaguely familiar faces as they both watch in silence. She recognizes the angry expressions, the strong jawlines, the regal forms of some Rigelian nobility she is acquainted with. It’s already apparent to her where Ezekiel is going with this, given her idea to bring Rigelian culture into play.

“I don’t need to beat the dead horse,” Ezekiel says after a few minutes. He places an elbow on the table and rests a cheek against his fist as they observe a burly woman—a duchess, Celica recognizes her as—throwing down another with her bare hands. “You already know that actions speak louder than words in Rigelian culture.”

“That they do, yes.” Celica winces and turns her head away just slightly as she sees someone get whacked on the head particularly hard with a training sword. They crumple, and a cleric comes rushing over, staff in hand. “Oh, that will leave a mark.”

“Certainly so,” Ezekiel agrees. “I’ve found that ‘holding back’ isn’t a concept that many of these people are familiar with, be it in the training yard or politics. Based on what you’ve said, you’re familiar with the latter scenario.”

“Unfortunately.” Celica still doesn’t get exactly what it is that these people have against extending aid to the decimated eastern Rigel, getting it back on its feet after being dominated by the Faithful for decades, but it certainly is something. “So you are proposing that I don’t hold back. That I take this Rigelian concept of ‘actions are louder than words’ into my dealings with them.”

“Just so. I’ve seen many disagreements in the court be settled with a sharp blow over a sharp word. Not even Emperor Rudolf was above taking a political adversary out to the yard and letting them meet the business end of his sword.” He pauses; Celica’s stomach drops as she wonders if he is actually suggesting she kill someone over a political disagreement, but then he hastily adds, “Training sword, of course. Lethal dueling of any kind is illegal in Rigel. It absolutely would not be responsible for me to suggest you kill unruly subjects.”

Celica quirks her lips up into a smile, then proceeds to frown. “But, you know, that makes me wonder: if my assistance in putting down a corrupted god isn’t the loudest action possible, then what is?”

“Hm.” Ezekiel leans back in his chair and steeples his finger, brow furrowed as he thinks. He is quiet for some time; she can see him working his tongue against his cheek, and he doesn’t seem pleased. “You are right. It is ridiculous that you need do more. But, perhaps it is only because they were not there to see it that they keep their heels in the dirt. Tatiana suggested to me before that some of them may even be embittered at the loss of Duma and Mila.”

She sighs, forgets her manners, and props up her elbows on the table as she stares out at the training yard. Ruling, she knew, was never going to be easy. No one ever told her it would be. Then again, no one ever told her just how hard it was. No one ever told her about all the games that politicians play. Despite how much they did prepare her for, she still feels helpless in the grand scheme of this new country.

“You fence, do you not, my lady Anthiese?”

Celica looks back towards Ezekiel, blinking twice before responding, “I know my swordplay, but I imagine you’re talking about fencing-fencing. The stuff that nobles do for exercise.”

“Do Zofian nobles do it for exercise?” he asks. “In Rigel, it’s a very important social activity; it is not uncommon to go for a round after meetings, or a meal, in high society. It is all a display of strength, as you can imagine.”

She suppresses the urge to roll her eyes. Do Rigelians ever stop trying to kick each other’s asses?

“You propose I also take up fencing as a social activity?” Celica asks.

Ezekiel leans over the table, also putting his elbows up on it. His gold hair catches the sun, and there is, perhaps, a mischievous glint in his eye as he says, “I propose that if they so badly need to see your strength for themselves, that you needn’t hesitate in crushing them.”

Celica smiles, unabashedly, for the first time in a few days.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tatiana fireemblem? did you mean, The Love of My (and Zeke's) Life?

“Do you know what I think we need?” Clair asks.

“More food,” is Gray’s reply.

“More juice,” is Tobin’s.

“More sense,” is Faye’s.

Clair opens her hands as she props her elbows up on the table. “I think Faye has the closest answer.”

“Why do you always take Faye’s side?” Gray complains.

Once upon a time, Clair’s breaks would have been taking tea with other young noblewomen of her age. It would have been a couple of hours set aside amidst tutoring, with pots of tea, plates of goodies, the like. Nowadays, it’s usually not that. She misses her childhood friends, but she hasn’t got the time to go to their parties and luncheons, not when she’s got a fraction of the army to manage and meetings to attend.

Now, her breaks are usually quiet little things, tucked away in lesser-known rooms of the castle with her army friends. They don’t have all the manners her childhood friends do, and they don’t like as refined of food, but Clair feels more at ease with them than girls who give her odd looks when her leg doesn’t stop jittering beneath the table. For today’s break, she’s simply tagged along with Faye, Gray, and Tobin to their dinner arrangements.

“I think that we need to do something about this horrible issue, all this lack of respect for Alm and the queen,” Clair says. “I think it’s more important than your juice problem, Tobin.”

“Why are you only picking on me when Gray said something equally stupid?” Tobin whines.

Faye doesn’t look up from her embroidery. “That’s just your lot in life. Accept it or perish.”

“Are you kids being nice to each other?”

It is Tatiana who asks this from the comfort of the stove, just a few feet away. It’s her kitchen that they are holding this impromptu dinner/meeting in, in fact. Tatiana and Ezekiel have nice quarters, tucked away in the eastern wing of the castle, near the infirmary and overlooking the gardens. They’re simple and far from lavish; only a bedroom, a couple of spare rooms for guests and other things, a study, and a living room. Clair marvels at how anyone can cope with so small a space. She herself thought she would go mad during the war, having to share a tent with Faye and Silque. But, Ezekiel and Tatiana are simple people, and she supposes it suits them well enough.

“Yeah, ‘kids,’ are you being nice?” Alm, hovering over a pot with Tatiana at his side, asks.

“Tatiana, stop calling us kids,” Gray says. He reaches for a bowl of nuts on the table and pulls a few out. “You’re only, what, three years older than me and Clair?”

“Tatiana has her own house, a significant other, and knows how to fold fitted sheets,” Faye quips. “She’s more of an adult than you.”

“I’ll stop calling you all kids when you stop coming to my kitchen for free food,” is all that Tatiana says, but she doesn’t say it in any aggrieved or annoyed way. In fact, she has her same happy tone as always, and Clair can tell that she really doesn’t mind them stopping by at all, nor cooking for them. “Now, eat your nuts, Gray. Alm and I are gonna have dinner done in a few minutes.”

Clair sees Alm squint into the pot that both he and Tatiana have been slaving over together. Alm has never been a cook, besides knowing how to season some meat and put it over a campfire, but he’s been learning with Tatiana for a few weeks now. Something to do with learning about Rigelian culture in all shapes and forms, she thinks she’s heard him explain. She anticipates that this is only partly the reason, though, and that the other part is just that he wants a home-cooked, country-style meal, rather than something brought to him on a silver platter.

“Is it almost done?” Alm mumbles. He pokes whatever it is in the pot with a wooden spoon. “How do you tell?”

“From the color of the meat,” Tatiana says. She reaches over and slips the spoon from his hand. “How about you go sit down with everyone else? Sounds like they’re talking politics, Your Majesty.”

Gray snickers, and Tobin gives an exaggerated sweep of his arm towards the chair next to him, declaring, “Grace us with your presence, O King.” He winds up nearly knocking over his glass of juice into Faye’s lap, but he catches it in time and only turns a pale shade of pink.

Alm leaves the kitchen after wiping his hands and takes a seat, frowning teasingly. “Did you all really follow me into Zeke and Tatiana’s room to talk politics? Because I think it was just for the food.”

“I can’t speak for anybody else, but it was food.” Gray pops the handful of nuts into his mouth and crunches on them, loudly. “Clair’s the only one in here who really cares ‘bout that stuff.”

“I care about that stuff,” Tatiana protests from the stove. “We all should. Gray, just sit there and eat some more nuts.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Clair huffs and reaches over her shoulder, finding an end of her hair to play with. She leans forward and puts her elbows up on the table, then winces and retracts them when she realizes they are no longer soldiers at a makeshift table in the mess tent, but civilized people in a castle. She’s got no business putting her elbows up on tables. “Alm and Her Majesty deal with scorn and spite from all sides every day, and you truly don’t care about politics?”

Faye looks up from her embroidery, blinking her big, soft owl eyes at Clair. “Gray’s got a big sword now, so why does he need to care about politics?”

Gray frowns as everyone else giggles at his expense. “Hey, I mean, it’s not that! It’s just that, you know, I’m not good at ‘em. None of us are.”

There is an awkward pause that hangs over the table. Clair looks to Alm and finds him scratching his cheek, looking more than a little discomforted. She frowns at his disheartened look, rubs her arm, and looks away towards a picture, depicting the Rigelian countryside, hanging on the nearby wall.

It distresses her, greatly, to see Alm flounder like this. There were times in the army where he would briefly lose his motivation, and where he would confess to her that he could not see the light at the end of the tunnel. But, he always found ways to deal with those times, and ways to pick himself up and keep going. It doesn’t look like he’s able to find any way to deal with this, though. The purely political dissent seems to be so far out of his realm of comfort and knowledge.

It distresses her to see Queen Anthiese struggle with it all as well. The queen seems to be such a nice lady, and from the very second that Clair met her, obviously doing her best. Only someone who truly cares would spend that much time in the library, burying her nose into all manner of texts and documents. Clair gets a strong, trustworthy vibe from her, even if she barely knows the woman. Queen Anthiese just seems bright, in so many ways.

“That isn’t to say you’re not giving it your best shot, Alm,” Gray assures hurriedly. He’s stopped picking through the bowl of nuts and is tugging at his bangs instead. “I mean- You know what I mean.”

“Yeah.” Alm chews on his lip and looks down at the table. His expression is suddenly palpable, and Clair feels guilty. These “Rigelian culture lessons” in the comfort of Tatiana and Ezekiel’s home may very well be his only safe space, the only reprieve he has from his kingly burdens, and she has essentially walked up to him and dumped them all on his plate. “Yeah, I get what you mean. But, you know, Celica and I are doing our best. We are! It just really feels like everyone is against us.

The shifting of a pot from the kitchen catches everyone’s attention. Tatiana has removed it from the flame and is looking at them, frowning, which is a very unusual expression to see on her face. “I mean, not everyone is gonna be on your side when you ‘killed the gods.’” She rolls her eyes as she sets the pot aside, then tucks her hands into her apron as she makes for the sink. “But anyone with more than two brain cells knows that it was for the best. I’m a member of the clergy and  _ I _ think it was for the best.”

“They think we’re going to starve,” Faye brings up, a little hesitantly. She puts her embroidery circle down on the table and presses her lips in a line. “I know that a lot of people are really worried that we’re not gonna be able to grow anything, now that Mother Mila is gone.”

Tatiana scoffs. “And I suppose the Father is just chopped liver at this point.”

“He was trying to, like, destroy everything, I think,” Tobin brings up, as hesitantly as Faye brought up her point, but he flinches back when Tatiana gives him a pointed stare. “Sorry. Too soon.”

“He was sick. That’s all,” Tatiana mumbles quietly. She falls silent, then, and turns to the sink.

Alm sighs, fortunately leaving no room for any kind of awkward silence, and perches his face in his hands. “They really think that?”

“I don’t know if they’re so much worried about starving,” Clair says, effectively pulling everyone’s eyes to her, “as they are having to work in the fields.”

The four of them stare stupidly at her—even Tatiana turns her eyes towards Clair. Five villagers, all seemingly stumped at the concept of someone not wanting to touch dirt. Clair doesn’t bring up the fact that she herself might not be too happy getting down and dirty in the fields, after she got over her initial fascination with the task of farming. But, then again, who knows? Perhaps getting dirty in a different way from war, all the blood and mud, would be fun.

Clair licks her lips and looks down to the table. “I still talk to my friends, you know. From before- before the war. Not often, given how busy I am, but we do chat. And they are positively terrified by the concept of having to grow their crops, believe me. And, gods forbid they raise their own cows.”

There is more stunned silence, and then Tobin breaks it by giggling. “Oh my gods. What, are they scared they’re gonna touch a worm or something?”

She doesn’t know how to tell him that, yes, that is probably exactly it.

“Maybe all this resistance is a matter of mine and Celica’s age,” Alm continues wondering aloud. “On top of all that bull about the Zofian nobility having those stupid expectations for Celica you told me about. And- and maybe it could also be the fact that we weren’t able to spare any of the Rigelian royalty.”

She wonders if it really would have been so different if Lord Berkut of Rigel had survived the war. Clair obviously didn’t the know man well enough to say. She never knew how the Rigelian court valued him, but she certainly heard many a village maiden gossipping about his “fine eyes” as they traveled through the country. She doesn’t know, based on his apparent mental collapse, if he ever would have been able to hand the Rigelian throne over to Alm. Certainly, it would have never been without a fight. She doesn’t know, and she doesn’t care to think about it.

It makes her think of Fernand.

“Hmm.” Faye sticks her tongue out of the corner of her mouth, just a bit. “I think it might be nice if they could see you outside of a political setting. Maybe they just need to see that you and Celica are people, like them.”

“She’s right. People might just be out here thinking that you and Celica are some god-slaying maniacs who want to totally upheave everyone’s way of life.” Tobin pulls the bowl of nuts towards him and nods. “Maybe they just need to see the Real Alm.”

“The Real Me has anxiety,” Alm replies flatly. He groans and puts his face in his hands. “Gooooods, seeing these people in a meeting makes me wanna curl up and die enough. I don’t know if I could handle seeing them at the market or whatever. Get real, Tobin.”

“It was Faye’s idea,” Tobin points out quietly. Faye smiles smugly.

“Hey, you know what?” Tatiana comes over to the table, pot in hand, and puts it down—it’s stuffed full of roasted, glazed pork, vegetables, and little leaves that Clair assumes are for flavoring the dish. “Zeke went to parties all the time back in Rigel. You know, like balls and stuff. Nobles held them all the time to talk politics and economics. I went to a few; they were sorta casual events, while still being… stuffy? Like, they were still business-y.”

“A ball?” Clair echoes. It’s an interesting proposition, but she finds it hard to think when the food has been put down in front of them. She hasn’t eaten since the early afternoon, and Tatiana’s food smells rich and delicious, both sweet and spicy. She eagerly holds out a hand as their hostess passes some spoons around.

“Yeah. I bet you Zofians like balls.” Tatiana finishes passing out the spoons and makes her way for the counter again. “I’ve got some rice to go with that, so stay put!”

Clair, eager, puts her spoon to the surface of the food. The glaze is a rich, dark brown, and sticks to the metal. Though she finds the meal distracting, she says, “Yes, we do. I don’t think I’ve ever been to the type of ball you’re speaking of, however.” Clair withdraws her spoon and gives it a lick, but alas, it’s not quite enough to give her a full sense of the dish’s flavor. “Those are more for the knights and the nobility who are very involved in the way things run.”

“But weren’t you a Knight of Zofia before things blew up?” Gray asks.

“Indeed I was, but I was a very green recruit,” Clair reminds. “And by the time I had become a knight, well… Those sorts of balls had become parties that were only for Desaix and those loyal to him. Clive, Mathilda, and Fernand would still attend, since it would be unusual if they did not, but Desaix had simply surrounded himself with people who would tell him what they wanted to hear, and who would do what he said. Not even my father nor mother were invited to the balls anymore, and our house is very prestigious.”

“So even if there were nobles with good intentions, Desaix didn’t really let them do shit,” Gray muses.

“Nasty,” Alm comments. “What were they like in Rigel, Tatiana?”

Tatiana hums as she brings over a bowl of fresh rice, still steaming when she sets it down. “As far as I could tell from going to a few, they were just people trying to get money from other people. Everyone was invited, but attendance wasn’t mandatory. People usually only came if they wanted good food, to get drunk, or to get people on their side for whatever reason. Zeke and I only ever went if the emperor was gonna be there, or if Zeke was trying to get support for some new military proposal he was trying to fund.”

“Sounds stressful,” Faye says, and she takes a deep sigh. “I don’t think I like politics.”

Clair thinks that everyone at the table shares that sentiment.

Slowly, everyone starts reaching for the food, which Tatiana doesn’t provide plates or bowls for. Clair has learned that, in Rigelian culture, dishes aren’t always required. It’s a little odd to her personally, she who has eaten from porcelain nearly her entire life, but of course, she adjusts. They all drown their worries in the food, which tastes just as sweet and spicy as it smelled. Clair isn’t a chef herself, so she’s not even really sure what she’s eating beyond pork and rice, but it is delicious. She thinks her own chefs could take a page or two from Tatiana’s book.

Tatiana settles into a chair next to Alm, sighing deeply. She looks exhausted, Clair suddenly notices, and she can see something in her eyes from this distance: worry, perhaps. Fear. Something that is only lingering, and not really entirely present. She only runs her thumb over the spoon, instead of eating the food. “Don’t eat it all. Zeke’s gonna be home soon, and he should get to eat, too.”

“We can ask him about the balls,” Clair determines. “Ezekiel always has good advice.”

“I actually sent Celica to him earlier today,” Alm says. “She decided she wanted to see if there was any way she could cooperate with the Rigelian nobility.”

Tatiana presses her lips in a thin line. “Well, the nobility isn’t too fond of Zeke, either. But, he’s still probably the best person to ask. He doesn’t hate your guts, after all.”

Alm laughs, but it’s a dry, humorless sound.

It’s not long that they wait for Ezekiel, because he comes through the door only a minute later. Clair can already see the slump in his shoulders and tell that he is exhausted. This is the state she is used to seeing him in, unfortunately. Exhausted, exhausted, exhausted. Always looking like he is carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders when he doesn’t need to. She pities the poor man, but is gradually coming to feel more understand than anything, as she shoulders more responsibilities of her own.

He comes through the door with an armful of flowers, along with his exhaustion, and she can already hear Tobin and Gray snickering to one another about it. And they wonder why Tatiana still calls them “kids.”

“Gray,” he says without turning to them. “Tobin. Why are you in my house and eating my food?”

“Sorry to crash your romance time, lover boy, but Alm invited us,” Gray says.

“No,” Alm protests. “They followed me to my cooking lesson and Tatiana didn’t make them go home, so it’s her fault.”

Tatiana is up from the table, making her way to the door, and she makes a teasing face at Alm as she passes. Clair continues eating spoonfuls of the flavorful pork as she watches Ezekiel turn, smile, and present Tatiana the flowers. They exchange some hushed words that they all make a point to not pay attention to, Tatiana giggles like a village girl flirting with a traveling soldier, and they head back to the dining area. Ezekiel begins to remove a coat as Tatiana procures a vase for her flowers.

“Do I look like I am going to blame her for anything?” he asks, amused. “Make some room for me here, if you please. Faye, do you mind if I sit next to you?”

Faye scoots her chair over and pats the empty space next to her invitingly. Ezekiel grabs a chair from the living area and comes back over, sets it down, and grunts as he settles into the seat. He props an arm up on the table and immediately sinks his face into a hand, dragging his fingers over his forehead. He looks weary, but his eyes are still warm, particularly as they fall upon Alm.

“Tatiana said this is your favorite.” Alm offers him a spoon. “We had some questions for you.”

“Sometimes it seems the whole world does.” He takes the spoon from him. “Thank you, Alm. What can I do for you?”

Alm looks over to Clair, jerks his head to Ezekiel, and she fumbles a little as she realizes that everyone has somehow decided that this is  _ her _ thing now. Maybe it serves her right, since she was the one to bring up the whole “hey, let’s fix this!” thing. She puts down her spoon and clears her throat, briefly swipes her fingers over her mouth, and smooths her hands over her lap. “We were wondering what you would think of a ball.”

Ezekiel raises an eyebrow, pausing as he dips his rice-filled spoon into the pork. He leans back in his chair and hums. “A ball? As in, a party”

Clair clears her throat again. “You too have noticed that there’s a problem, yes? With a lack of respect. Respect from the court towards Alm and the queen, that is. Alm was just telling us that he referred the queen to you earlier today to help with that.”

“How did that go?” Alm asks.

“Well enough. We may have found some sort of solution to help make some headway with some of the Rigelian faction, but only time will tell.” Ezekiel takes a few moments to have a few bites of food. Tatiana comes back to her seat in the meantime, clearly pleased with her flowers. She starts eating now, and everyone else around the table puts their spoons down to allow them their food.

“Tatiana was telling us you would have balls in Rigel,” Alm says. “For like, nobles and military types. Clair said they had those here in Zofia, too, but that Desaix had taken them over. Right?”

“Yes,” Clair affirms. “For the past few years. I’ve never been to one myself, but my parents and Clive always spoke fondly of them. They seemed to be good opportunities for people to mingle, and we were thinking that perhaps the court would feel more warmly towards Alm and the queen, if only they were to see them in a more casual light.”

“We can propose legislation and stuff while being social,” Alm continues.

Clair wonders, as everyone continues to talk, if it would be naive of her to suggest that everyone could also have simple fun. Balls, in her experience, have been fun, social events. She’s never been to one of the nature they are discussing, but she has always loved a fun party with her friends. No one has really had any time for fun or enjoyment, as of late. Maybe it’s part of the reason that everyone is so on edge, so angry. She doubts that any of the Zofian nobility were throwing lavish parties after Desaix’s defeat. The Rigelians certainly weren’t.

Would Queen Anthiese have fun at a ball?

“It sounds to me as though you have it all figured out,” Zeke says. “I am not sure why you felt the need to bring the idea to me, Albein. You are the king; if you want a ball, have a ball. No one is going to say no to you over a party.”

“You’re right.” Alm’s voice sounds lighter, cheerier. He’s smiling as he looks over at Clair. “I do still owe you that dance, don’t I? And you said you’d teach me how.”

So he remembered.

She grins and clasps her hands together. “Oh, yes! I had nearly forgotten all about our plans to have a grand party. I simply can’t wait to have you step on my toes!”

“I’m not-” Alm flushes as Faye begins to laugh. “I’m not that bad! I don’t think. Probably.”

“We’ll make a proper gentleman out of you yet,” Clair says. “Will we not, Ezekiel?”

“So I am included in this ‘dancing’ now, am I?”

“Oh, you’re a splendid dancer, my love.” Tatiana cups her cheeks in her hands and gazes up at him. “Very splendid indeed. Giving Alm a lesson for an hour or two a day won’t kill you.”

Ezekiel sighs, deeply. “It shan’t, that is true.”

“Zeke can say goodbye to his feet,” Tobin mumbles to Gray. “I’ve never seen a worse dancer than Alm!”

Alm looks like a kicked puppy as everyone has a laugh at his expense.

Clair takes a moment to think about it, rearranging her schedule in her mind, blocking out time here and there. “I will plan the party,” she determines. “It will be such fun! We can have dancing, food, drink, and with a little luck, we can get some people to lower their hackles.”

“If you get enough wine into some people, they’ll agree to anything,” Tatiana advises. “I hope you all have fun!”

“You speak as though you’re not attending!” Clair remarks. “Oh, I cannot wait to see you all dressed up! I imagine it’s quite the sight, my friend.”

Tatiana blushes deeply as Zeke laughs. “Oh, I’m- I’m not really th-that good at these sorts of events-”

“Don’t go if that is what you want,” Zeke advises her. “But I would be at your side the whole time, should you attend, and I admit to wanting to see you in something nice as well.”

“I insist you attend,” Clair says. “All of you! We can have nobles and commoners, and damn what anyone has to say against it.” She pauses, thinks, and then asks, “Does Queen Anthiese like to dance?”

“When we were seven, yeah,” Tobin says. “But that wasn’t really dancing-dancing.”

Faye speaks up. “She’d probably like it. I think they’d probably have taught her that fancy stuff at that priory she went to.”

“I hope she decides to come,” Clair says. “I- I do hope to have a chance to speak to her again. I quite liked her, when we spoke before.”

“I’m sure she’ll come,” Alm reassures. “People may expect that she won’t come, and she’ll probably show up out of spite.”

Clair smiles—Anthiese sounds more and more delightful every time someone speaks of her.


End file.
